inner room, bumped against a man trailing a kite-tail of proof, who had
issued from a door to the right, asked a question, got a response, and
entered the editor's den. Two littered desks made up the principal
furniture of the place. Impartially distributed between the further desk
and a chair, the form of one lost in slumber sprawled. At the nearer one
sat a dyspeptic man of middle age waving a heavy pencil above a galley
proof.

"Are you the editor?" asked Hal.

"One editor. I'm Mr. Sterne. How the devil did you get in here?"

"Are you responsible for this?" Hal held up the morning's clipping,
headed "Surtaine Fakeries Explained."

"Who are you?" asked Sterne, nervously hitching in his chair.

"I am Harrington Surtaine."

The journalist whistled, a soft, long-drawn note. "Dr. Surtaine's son?"
he inquired.

"Yes."

"That's awkward." "Not half as awkward as it's going to be unless you
apologize privately and publicly."

Mr. Sterne looked at him estimatingly, at the same time wadding up a
newspaper clipping from the desk in front of him. This he cast at the
slumberer with felicitous accuracy.